If You Truly Wanted To Escape
by Valkyrie Of The Dead
Summary: ...you'd have run faster... Inspired by a tumblr post. Harry is killed in front of John's eyes, and he wants revenge - and to get his Sherlock back.
1. Chapter 1

**I'm sorry for those waiting for a new chapter of Kiara - it will come soon!**

**Okay, this one was inspired by a tumblr post - valkyrie-of-the-dead . tumblr post / 75141056394 / archiaart-if-you-truly-wanted-to-escape-youd**

**I know the picture looks a bit different and has a different meaning (the link is on my profile as well) but I just had the idea to do this.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Harry's eyes were wide and terrified. Her hair was ruffled and her hands wer tied behind her back, as far as John could see, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

This was something he had always feared, and since he began solving crimes with Sherlock, whenever the thought came up he send it to the furthest corner of his mind. He had never believed a criminal might make the connection between John Watson, blogger and best friend of the famous Sherlock Holmes, living in London, and Harry Watson, an alcoholic lesbian whose ex-wife was living with someone else now.

Harry always seemed so far away. She only lived in the outskirts of London, but the name Watson was common and their meetings or calls were the opposite.

When he heard her whimper through the gag which was tied tightly to her head, he narrowed his eyes once more. Whoever this criminal was, couldn't they just get on with it? It was obvious that his sister was only a bait, to get him, and through him probably Sherlock, to come. So here he was, even though Sherlock wasn't, so what was the man waiting for? If he was indeed waiting for Sherlock, he'd have to wait a long time.

* * *

The last time he saw Sherlock was five days ago, they had been fighting and eventually, John had stormed out to calm down. But not before he had insulted Sherlock, thrown words at him that were designed to hurt him. And being Sherlock's only friend also meant being the only person knowing how to really hurt him. With words, anyway.

„_Do you know why they call you Freak, Sherlock? Because that's how you present yourself to them, and I'm starting to wonder what's the real act. Because do you even really know how to care? Does a freak know how to care?"_

The words were bouncing around in his head, mocking him. Of course Sherlock cared, he had proven that many times: At the swimming-pool, in many of their cases...

When he came back from his walk, Sherlock wasn't there anymore. He hadn't left any information where he was going whatsoever, but regarding that it was late afternoon, he'd probably just gone to the Yard or to Molly.

If only. When Sherlock hadn't returned at midnight the same day and hadn't responded to any texts or calls, John had decided to call Mycroft, who somehow seemed to be awake anytime of the day. Or night, if you wanted to be completely correct. But Mycroft hadn't seen Sherlock the whole day, and since four o'clock that day he hadn't been on any CCTV at all, and he hadn't reached the Yard or the hospital. It was as if he hadn't been in London or anywhere near London the whole afternoon.

The only thing John could think about those days was Sherlock. Something had happened to him. It wasn't like him to sulk for this long or not answer any attempts of communication. John feared, and he guessed under Mycroft's mask the older brother did as well, that Sherlock had been attacked and kidnapped, if not killed.

But why wasn't there any kind of communication from a possible kidnapper? They had been in this kind of situation a few times before, a video or a picture of the other one being beaten up was horrible, but better than this uncertainity.

And to make everything worse, there had been a break-in at Harry's and Harry was gone. John didn't know how, but somehow he had figured out, with some help from Mycroft and the police, where she was – because there was no sign of real struggle and somehow he had a hunch.

Harry was in the warehouse by the Thames.

* * *

And stupid as he always was, John had stormed right in, not waiting for back-up. He had been quiet, of course, but the back-up was at least five minutes away. With his gun drawn, he had gone into the warehouse, but he wasn't careful enough. The sight of Harry so frightened in that chair was something he wouldn't forget, neither was the glint of the metal of the gun, which was pointing at her temple, nearly touching it, ever leaving his memory.

The man holding the gun was wearing casual clothes, jeans, boots, a hoody and a cap under the drawn up hood. The gloves he wore were high quality, as was the purple scarf he had put over his mouth and nose, barely leaving the eyes free, so he wouldn't be recognized. Everything John could see right now where slightly panicked brown eyes.

Putting his gun on the floor was hard, stepping away from it even more so, and when he raised his hands he was hating his own stupidity. Then again, the distraction he had brought with him had stopped the man from shooting Harry, which was definitely good.

John frowned. Things weren't adding up. If Harry had been a simple bait, why had she nearly been shot? Not good of a leverage dead, was she?

John could see the tiny tightening of the trigger finger and jumped forwards. He didn't get on with his sister, she was at times annoying and couldn't stay of the bottle, but she was his sister, and had some, few, good parts. And she was family.

But as soon as he started moving he knew it was too late, but that didn't mean he couldn't try.

The bullet enters and leaves Harry's head. Blood and brain-matter splatter through the room, and she slackens instantly.

John saw this with a doctor's, a surgeon's eye, and knew that his sister was dead, but her killer wasn't. With his left hand he twisted the gun away from him, with his right he grabbed the scarf on the man's face and pulled it down.

Shock, confusion, anger, despair and betrayal coursed through him, and he stumbled backwards. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Barely managing to stay on his feet, he took a few steps backward, then finally turned and fled. He ran as if he was running for his life, indeed, running from the truth was a very good description.

The gun still in his hands, eyes wide open, mouth opened to defend himself, the gun-free hand stretched out to hold the fleeing man, Sherlock Holmes stood there and and closed his eyes in horror.

* * *

**What do you think? Why did Sherlock do that?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's chapter two! Don't worry, the next chapter of Kiara is coming soon!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

John couldn't hear much besides the whooshing in his ears. His thoughts were going round and round in his head, he fell twice as he blindly ran away. Away from the warehouse, away from his dead sister, away from _Sherlock_.

He felt dizzy and could see stars and black spots in front of his eyes, but the calm, doctor-part of his mind told him it was just because he was hyperventilating. But why not? Why shouldn't he? Wasn't one allowed to hyperventilate when the supposedly best friend shot one's sister?

He suddenly became aware of other sounds. Sher- , no, _his_ voice cut through the whooshing in his ears, shouting his name. He was coming closer, quickly, and John assumed it was because of his longer legs and better coordination right now.

John blinked away the fogginess from his eyes, and didn't turn around, but as it turned out, he didn't need to. When _he_ was only a few metres away from John, John stumbled and fell once more. It was dark and even though he had no idea where he was right now, he knew that he was rather far away from the warehouse.

As he struggled to get up again, gentle hands turned him around so he was lying on his back. There was pressure on his wrists, which were beside his head, and when he looked up, he looked directly in Sherlock's face.

He could see the contact-lenses now, the brown was dirty because of the sliver behind them, and he couldn't help but wonder why Sherlock wore them. Surprised as he had looked, he hadn't meant for anyone to see him. Harry hadn't been a bait at all, Sherlock had just killed her – for fun? Was Donovan finally right? Had Sherlock snapped?

There was no insanity in those eyes he had grown to care for, only concern and guilt and sadness.

"Get away from me!" John's voice wasn't as strong as he wanted it to be. It was breaking and the tears he had suppresed until now were clearly audible.

He tried to get out of Sherlock's grip, but noticed two things. Firstly, he had to distract Sherlock, so he could use a technique he had learned in the army. Secondly, Sherlock was holding the gun in his right hand, pressing it to John's wrist.

"John -" Sherlock looked pained, but what for? He didn't have to shoot Harry, so there was no excuse. Had he just wanted to kill her for fun and then never tell anyone about it? Clever as he was, the crime would have never been found, Harry's body hidden somewhere.

When he said this out loud, Sherlock looked surprised. Because John had understood what his plan had been? Or was it because of something else?

What ever it was, it distracted Sherlock for that tiny moment that John needed. He pulled his left arm out of Sherlock's grip and pulled on Sherlock's arm. With his right arm and whole body he flipped up.

It was a reflex to grab the gun, just like putting his knees on Sherlock's arm, just above his elbows, and sitting on his chest.

They were now in a similar position as before, almost mirrored, but John's hands were free – and the gun pointed exactly between Sherlock's eyes. It didn't touch him, not yet, but a shot now would be deadly anyway.

Sherlock looked surprised and now also, finally, John's mind couldn't help but add, slightly worried.

"John, let me explain." There was an urgent note in his voice, but when John closed his eyes, he could still see Harry's panicked eyes, could still see the blood. What right had Sherlock to be urgent? What right had he at all?

"Why. Why, Sherlock?" John growled, his voice shaking, but this time because of anger. Both of them knew what John meant – not why he should let Sherlock explain, but why he had killed Harry.

"I had to, John, otherwise you would have been gone." Sherlock spoke quickly, as if he was worried John would change his mind about letting him talk.

"I couldn't change it, it had to happen." At the back of his head John could hear a tiny voice which was not questioning this, but thinking about what Sherlock meant. If – _if_ Sherlock had a good reason, then he would say it, wouldn't he? He was so eloquent, he could explain everything – well besides emotion. So why was he doing such a poor job with this?

But that tiny voice was exactly that. Tiny. And the rest of him screamed for something else. He wanted revenge, he wanted his sister back. But the second thing was impossible, so he'd go for the first.

He moved the gun, so the barrel was touching Sherlock's skin. The detective flinched, but had no-where to go, and didn't move anywhere else. Pulling the safety trigger back, which somehow had been on – why would Sherlock chase him with a gun, keep the gun in hand, to have it not ready to shoot? – felt good. His hand wasn't shaking anymore, this was what he was good at. Shooting.

Sherlock had closed his eyes. He was breathing only slightly quicker, but John could hear that he was keeping it under good control.

"John." He sounded out of breath, his voice quiet, but he didn't try to move at all. When John thought back, he hadn't resisted at all since he had flipped him over. Did he trust John so much? Did he think John wouldnt shoot him? Did he really have a reason to kill Harry?

John didn't know. But he did know, if he shot Sherlock now, he wouldn't find out. He'd go to prison, maybe even for the murder of Harry.

It wasn't really a conscious decision. Flicking the safety trigger back on and swinging the gun, hitting Sherlock's temple was one fluid motion. Sherlock was unconscious instantly, as a doctor John couldn't help but quickly check for breathing and pulse. Not even Sherlock was that a good actor to fake unconsciousness to him.

* * *

When the police finally found them, they were surprised at the situation. Sherlock Holmes was lying on his side, in recovery position, but with his hands cuffed together. He was obviously unconscious, otherwise he wouldn't be so still and pale.

Dr John Watson was standing a metre away from him. He was pale as well, his face was bruised and at some parts even a bit bloody, as if he had falled many times. There was a single tear-track down his right cheek and he was trembling, but the most surprising fact about him was the gun in his hand, pointed directly at his best friend's head.

* * *

**So what do you think? Do you know why Sherlock killed Harry? And stayed away from John, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, anyone he knew? Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes woke up with a blinding head-ache. There wasn't a lot of light in the room he was lying in, so it didn't hurt to much, but he was lying on something cold and uncomfortable.

Trying to push himself up proved to be a bad idea. The quiet groan slipping past his lips remained unnoticed by Sherlock, but he was able to hear the steps coming to his room. Somebody laughing, a woman, even though he couldn't hear who, was finally too much. Wincing because of the pain, his eyes rolled up again and he fell into darkness.

* * *

The next time he woke up was better. It was a bit lighter, but not much, and it didn't really hurt anymore. His head-ache had only the strength of a normal migraine, not very comfortable but something he was used to.

Raising his head and looking around was easier now. He was in a prison cell, lying on the narrow bed. Obviously Scotland Yard, even though his brain still wasn't working as fast as he would like it to. Then again, he couldn't really think during his migraines, especially during his bad ones, either.

There was nothing else to do for him, he wasn't really trusting his head enough to call out or even get up. His left temple was throbbing and another flare of pain shot through him when he touched it – but the realisation of what happened, and more importantly what he had done, flashed through his skull.

"Shit," He whispered, remembering John's reaction. However, at least he still was reacting – and worse was probably to come, when John wasn't in shock anymore. Judging by the light it was about eleven in the morning, he had been here since midnight.

A few minutes later a voice pulled him out of his shaking mind-palace. It always did that during migraines, sometimes he could hear shrill violin-music as well so he didn't enter it whenever he had a migraine, but it wasn't that bad now.

"Hey, Freak, you up?" The voice was booming and cut through the layer of calm, opening up the well of pain again, and Sherlock recognized Donovan's voice as the same he had heard the first time he woke up.

After a minute she opened the door to the cell and leaned to the wall.

"Finally done it now, haven't you?" He could practically hear the smirk, and taking his arm off his eyes and opening them he saw it confirmed.

He couldn't find a good response. Not a single insult, side remark or sneer he usually reserved for confrontations with the sergeant.

"Whatever, Donovan." He drawled quietly, hoping not to aggravate his head any more, but she seemed to enjoy this far too much. Not that he could blame her really, the way they treated each other and how he always beat her at everything had not exactly made her love him.

And even though she was behaving stupidly and couldn't find the answers to the simplest of questions, she was clever. Cleverer than the average, but she was held back by mind-blocks. Shame, really.

"Come on then, Lestrade is waiting for you." She announced, and Sherlock knew he had to do this some time or another. His head would probably kill him anyway, so why shouldn't he just get it over with?

It wasn't as if he would be able to tell them anything. They wouldn't believe him now, they wouldn't believe him in three days when all this would be over.

He ignored the pain in his head and tried to concentrate on the aching, pulling sensation in his back where the dried blood was cracking slightly. He'd have to change the dressing as well, hopefully they would be able to hold the blood and it wouldn't colour his shirt – he only had one other one in his hiding place.

It only helped slightly in keeping him aware of his surroundings, it made memories flicker up.

Getting up proved to be difficult but manageable when he moved slowly enough, and he couldn't help but sigh when Donovan took out the hand-cuffs. Okay, he had shot somebody and was now in custody because of it, but he wouldn't be able to run away – and according to his faint memories of being woken up every few hours in case he had a concussion (he did) they did know that.

The cold metal around his wrists nearly caused another flashback, but he kept it at bay by deducing Donovan. She had broken up with Anderson, not so stupid after all, but had begun to regret it. Oh. Stupid after all, not surprising.

* * *

Being on this side in this seat of the interrogation-room was nothing new, but it certainly was strange to be sitting here for a good reason. Fifteen years were quite probable now, even more so in three days – it would even be hard for Mycroft to help him in any way by then.

He would let himself be caught again though. Maybe they would understand.

* * *

Lestrade looked grim and tired when he finally entered the room, even more than he did when they had a case interesting enough for Sherlock. His appearance was very telling, as always, and Sherlock couldn't help but scoff slightly. Did they really think they could hide who was standing behind the one-way mirror?

"Hello Lestrade, John." Lestrade's shocked and surprised, he really should be used to that by now.

They told him everything he needed to know, like they did with every criminal – he forgot what they were saying just as soon as it left their mouths – and had him state who he was for the protocol, until they finally got on with the questioning.

"Sherlock, why did you shoot Ms Harriet Watson?" Lestrade looked like he really didn't want to be there and Donovan was simply smirking, and somehow this cheered Sherlock a lot. Lestrade wasn't really against him. Not entirely, anyway, he didn't like to be doing this at all, but that wouldn't last long.

"Safety." It wasn't a lie, but not in the way they were thinking. Stupid, really, but he wasn't in a top mental state either right now.

"What kind of safety? Yours, somebody else's?" Lestrade was quite good today, why wasn't he like that on all the other days when they were at crime scenes? Why couldn't he just be so perceptive any time but not now?

"Doesn't matter. Right now there are two things on my mind – I don't want any lawyer, no, before you ask that, and secondly John Watson had nothing to do with this. It was me who committed the crime of killing his sister, he only found out by accident." It was necessary that they knew this. John was a suspect as well, the situation could be reversed because of John's fingerprints on the gun. Idiot, leaving fingerprints on the murder-weapon wasn't the best move, but John had always had such a temper.

Luckily he didn't do anything else besides renewing Sherlock's concussion, he easily could have.

Lestrade's questions and words and tactics weren't audible in his mind-palace, he was free there, free to go through his memories and carefully delete. Most of what happened the last six days had to stay though, sadly, and Sherlock wasn't sure whether any of the people in the room noticed him stiffening when he went through them.

After a while the police seemed to realise how little the effect on him was and Donovan led him to his cells again.

No one, not even the detective himself noticed the slight limp in his step and the tension in his shoulders. Being an ex-army-doctor sharpened ones senses though, and John couldn't help but wonder what had really happened during Sherlock's absence to make him kill someone.


	4. Chapter 4

The cell was empty. Completely empty, there wasn't any trace that anyone had been in here at all for months, apart from the absence of dust. Nobody knew how Sherlock had escaped, not even John who they called in the middle of the night after one of the guards had noticed Sherlock's absence.

They had previously thought John would have helped him, but right now John wasn't sure he wanted to see Sherlock ever again.

He was still in some kind of shock. He had accepted that Harry was dead, that wasn't the problem. Of course he was sad, of course he was grieving, but him and Harry hadn't got on – he did feel a bit guilty about the slight lack of mourning but they hadn't seen each other for quiet long and it hadn't bothered either of them.

While he was sorting out the funeral and everything though, they were two things which kept coming up in his thoughts: The absolute panic in Harry's eyes and the fact that Sherlock was her killer. It still seemed unreal – he expected the detective to saunter in and explain who had done it and why in mere seconds and then scold him for all his worry and stupidity.

Mycroft didn't react to any attempts of contact. He just didn't seem to care, even though he had been the one who claimed to care. He didn't stop the police in any way with finding Sherlock, but he didn't stop them either – another very weird fact.

After a day, John did start to worry though. If Sherlock had disappeared, especially when he obviously had a concussion – which John did decidedly _not_ feel guilty about – and when something was wrong with him besides that he usually would have waited until he felt more or less comfortable again – he did have troubles keeping his balance in the beginning according to Donovan. And whenever he broke out of hospitals he usually went to 221B.

John couldn't really sleep that night. He was furious with Sherlock, the bastard had killed his sister, but he had a reason for everything he did. Besides, while Moriarty's mind had been about creating puzzles and challenging another great mind, Sherlock's was more about unravelling the truth. He rarely made puzzles himself, he found it dull and not very interesting.

* * *

Mrs Lestrade struggled weakly in his arms when Sherlock carried her from the stolen car into the warehouse. It was strange that she kept the name; while the DI obviously still cared about her, she didn't care about him. Since the divorce two months ago they hadn't had any contact, but she had slept with at least three different men. No, she certainly wasn't sad about the broken marriage.

The warehouse had a different lay-out to the one he had shot Harry in, but it only took a moment to get his bearings. The blue-prints weren't new, there were some changes, but Moriarty's cold, high voice led him to his destination.

"Sherly! Come on. I'm waiting, I don't have all day, you know?" He laughed his disturbing laugh, but Sherlock fought hard to keep his face blank. The cold weight of the knife against his hip was oddly reassuring, even if Moriarty had someone with him, he'd be the last person Sherlock killed. Even if it was the last thing he did.

"Hurry, Sherly, I'm getting bored, a little jumpy maybe..."

This caused Sherlock to speed up. He didn't care if Moriarty was bored, but he feared the consequences – Harry's death couldn't be for nothing.

Moriarty was standing in the middle of the huge space, it was mostly dark, only some light filtered through the dirty windows. There wasn't anyone else visible, but Sherlock didn't trust this vulnerability – the consulting criminal was nothing if not thorough.

"Hello Jim, I've got her here." The calm baritone stood in strange contrast to the mad giggle of the psychopath, very different but somehow strangely alike.

"See Sherly, this is what you could be. What you can be, if you choose to. The freedom of the own will, the power to do everything – isn't that something you'd enjoy?"

"Certainly. It's becoming tedious very quickly – there is no puzzle in infinity, nothing to set my mind to – Mycroft is far too boring to engage in any kind of games." There was some truth in his words, Sherlock realised. He had anchors now, people tethering him to _the side of the angels_, but only a few years ago, he nearly wrecked havoc. It was scary how close he was now; should Moriarty be able to press the trigger, should most of London blow up, there'd be nothing keeping him away from insanity. Not even Moriarty would stand a chance.

"You wanted to watch, Jim, it will be over afterwards?" It would never be over. Not as long as Moriarty lived, he would always be just a puppet in his hands. Maybe anchor was the wrong metaphor for his friends. Fishing-rods were better, they had him all hooked, but now they were in the criminal's power. He was the fisherman, now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay, so because two of you lovelies have called Sherlock a bit OOC in here, I thought I'd address that... I can see where you get it from. Personally, I don't like this chapter at all, but I couldn't make it any better. This story isn't really planned in advance, well, actually it is, like I made it all up when I started writing it. There is no other plot behind this, not a lot of thought - it's just some writing exercise which I decided to publish. There will be three chapters after this, I think...**

**So, if you think Sherlock is OOC, then I'm sorry, but I don't really care - I think he is too, but I can't and won't change anything about it (I do appreciate your reviews a lot though, they tell me how to write my main story, Kiara)**

**By the way, there will be Johnlock in here, probably in the last chapter. It's nothing graphic, it's just a tiny gesture which definitely isn't platonic - but you can ignore it if you want to...**

**Anyway, on with the story!**

* * *

"We've got something! There's a text, anonymous." Donovan's voice but through the tense silence in Lestrade's office. John was still there, waiting for news and besides, there was nothing, or rather no one waiting for him at home.

Worry was gnawing at his anger. The last two days had been very unsettling, he should have been enjoying the silence in the flat and the absence of human body-parts in the fridge (after he threw all of them away, insulting Sherlock loudly even though there was no one in the flat to hear) but he found he couldn't.

The facts just weren't adding up. Sherlock didn't have any reason at all to kill Harry. Despite his claims of being a sociopath or the haters calling him a psychopath, John knew that he wasn't. Sherlock did have a heart, a soft spot – but even though he was hiding that from most of the world, his confusion about emotions and sentiment was real.

And why would Sherlock follow John after killing his sister? He was clever enough, he could have gotten away with it easily, he could have been on the other side of the world by now. But no, he followed him – and didn't defend himself against John.

There was something very wrong, John could sense it, and that was what kept him awake at night.

* * *

The text was indeed anonymous and untraceable, there was some serious technology behind it. But it did tell them enough, enough to tell them where Sherlock might be and to spike John's worry.

The text wasn't from Sherlock. It was quite clear from the wording however, that the sender knew Sherlock and knew them – and it wasn't Mycroft.

_Come and play._

The address didn't mean much to John, but those three words did. It sounded horribly like someone he once knew, but Sherlock would have said something, wouldn't he?

* * *

The warehouses were shadowy and dark, not a single lamp anywhere near. They knew Sherlock had to be in one of three, and were checking them all, but this time John was more careful than the last time he had stood in front of a warehouse.

The first one was empty, no trace of anybody apart from some small animals, maybe rats or mice. Suddenly a loud shout rang through the air, telling them exactly where Sherlock was.

John could still hear his name being called by Sherlock when he burst through the door into warehouse number 3 – this time after Lestrade and another police-officer.

Sherlock was on his knees, behind him a large man, muscular and obviously not very intelligent, who was trying to force his knife towards and then into Sherlock's throat. Sherlock himself was pushing the knife away from himself, staining the hands and sleeves of his attacker red with blood.

It wasn't his blood, that was obvious, and the blade of the brute wasn't the one which had caused it as it was still blanc and shiny, no in front of Sherlock was a woman. She was lying on her back and not moving apart from a slight rising and deflating of her chest, indicating that she was still alive, but that stood in stark contrast to the pool of blood surrounding her and Sherlock's knees.

Maybe two metres away from them was another body. Jim Moriarty's dead eyes were staring blankly at them, his throat slid, bled out. He seemed to be holding something, but John's attention was pulled away again by Lestrade's voice.

"Jenny!" The shock and sadness, but at the same time the remainder of long gone love told everybody who Jenny was.

All this happened in less than a second, John realised. Sherlock was still trying to keep the knife away from his skin, and in a split second they communicated with their eyes. It felt natural, easy to be working with him again, after the ten days which seemed like an eternity, so John didn't even think about consequences.

The shot pierced through the brute's shoulder, just in the moment as Sherlock pushed his arm away once more. None of the police-officers seemed to care for a minute that a civilian had shot and rushed the other man away – and if they did, they were quiet about it.

* * *

John rushed towards Sherlock, whose concentration and tension was blown away the moment the brute was taken away. Leaning against John, he blinked quickly to stay completely alert.

"John, there is a box in Moriarty's hand. They mustn't press the trigger, there are bombs everywhere – at the Yard, St. Barts, Diogenes Club, even at the Tesco and in random buildings near the streets. I'm not sure about 221B, but if they press that trigger, everything and everyone is going to explode." The words rushed out in a single breath, he didn't stop once, but he could feel his awareness lessening.

"Don't let them touch the box, call Mycroft..."

While John was shouting the order through the warehouse to the people who were attempting to go to Moriarty, Lestrade came up the both of them.

This time, Sherlock did wince when the cuffs were fastened. He had accepted them without protest, but it made John's alarm bells go crazy – especially now, when the sleeves of Sherlock's hoody (which he strangely was still wearing, as well as the jeans) moved up.

Sherlock's wrists were wrapped in sloppy bandages, but some of the bruises and raw skin were still visible.

Sherlock didn't pull away when John moved the bandages. He knew his wrists were a mess, but John was a doctor, he could make it go better, couldn't he?

As much as Sherlock was annoyed by John's obliviousness at crime-scenes, and by his very acute senses, this time he was glad for them. Because John was there, and John was good. And if he noticed the lashes on his back or the burns on his chest, he would make them better.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for the long wait! Here's the sixth and last chapter of this story. It didn't go quite as planned, but in the end I kind of like it, even though there are some parts where the writing is horrible...**

**I tried a different style this time, I hope it works. There is a tiny bit of Johnlock in the end, I hope that doesn't bother you, but it's nothing graphic.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"You'll still go to court and probably prison, you know that, right?" Sherlock opened one eye to glare at John, who interrupted his thought process – even though he had been thinking about exactly that.

"I know. Mycroft will help, but they'll decide on a small time in prison – two years or so. The newspapers will go crazy, some of them being on Donovan's side, the others publishing me as some hero who saved everyone."

"You did, though." And paid a lot for it. The chart on the back of the hospital bed in which Sherlock was lying was big.

Bruised wrists and ankles because he had been tied down. Two concussions, one because of John and one bigger one before that. Two cracked ribs, major bruising everywhere on his torso, arms and legs. Torn back, whipped at least twice, infected. Some burn marks on his chest, but none of them really dangerous.

He had been electrocuted more than once and had once nearly drowned. Luckily no water-boarding, but real head-under-water drowning.

The big medical terms didn't help to obscure what had happened to Sherlock in his five-days absence, especially not to John.

John didn't want to imagine how it must have been for Sherlock, especially as he hadn't been allowed to contact anyone he knew. Sherlock had told him about that the day before, it had been one of Moriarty's threats. Contact anyone and everyone will die. It had kept Sherlock quiet.

"Not Harry." Sherlock's voice was quiet, and when John looked at him, he saw that Sherlock's eyes were now both open, but looking down at his fingers.

"Not Harry, no. But everyone else and you nearly died for it. It's okay, Sherlock."

Sherlock still didn't look up, and from what John could see from his face, he wasn't convinced.

"I'm not angry any more, Sherlock. Well, I am, but not at you. Harry was killed by Moriarty, even though you were the one to pull the trigger."

"I'm sorry, John."

* * *

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you stand accused of the murder of Miss Harriet Watson and Mr James Moriarty, as well as the attempt against Mrs Jennifer Lestrade's life. Do you have anything to say to your defence?"

"The death of Jim Moriarty was because of self-defence; he threatened the whole of London with well placed bombs. I had to make the choice between Harry Watson and Jennifer Lestrade and the whole population of London. It was the only way."

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes, you are found guilty of the murder of Harriet Watson, James Moriarty and the attempted murder of Jennifer Lestrade. Because of the extenuating circumstances, you are charged with eighteen months of prison in the Pentonville Prison. Do you have anything else to say?"

"No."

* * *

"Mr Sherlock Holmes is a very dangerous, very intelligent man; he needs to be transferred to a special facility." The man in front of Julian Watermore stood there as if he was the king of the world. Expensive three-piece suit, black umbrella on his arm, calm mask on his face.

"He hasn't done anything in the two months he has been here. No rebellious comment or action, not even one of his famous deductions." This man couldn't just take a prisoner to somewhere else, and Sherlock Holmes did not show any particularly dangerous tendencies.

"He will. Believe me, I know a lot about him; he is planning. And yes, I have the full power to take him to this facility, Mr Watermore." The sheet of paper was unmistakable.

"Very well, Mr...?"

"Holmes."

* * *

"How did it go?" John was sitting in 221B, together with Mycroft and Lestrade.

"He will be out tomorrow, Mr Watermore was very helpful and obedient once his position was made clear." Mycroft was calm, but John could have sworn there was a smile hidden behind that perfect mask.

"You do know that I should report this?" Lestrade was clearly a bit uncomfortable with it all, but Mycroft just smiled one of his rather creepy smiles.

"You do know that I could have you in Sherlock's exact position, but with a longer sentence, within seconds?"

This shut Lestrade up.

* * *

"Nice _facility_." Sherlock said with a slight sneer. John looked at him from the side. It was strange to see Sherlock like this, in a special uniform instead of his suit.

"Be quiet Sherlock, at least you won't be in prison for the next sixteen months."

"I won't? Then what do you call this house, then?"

"Okay. At least you won't be in Pentonville Prison. Better?"

"Much."

* * *

John was awed by the huge house, the lush interior, the expensive furniture, but Sherlock just went up some stairs, waiting for John to follow, and threw his stuff into his old room.

After five minutes he came out of the bathroom, finally in his usual suit again. He had missed it.

* * *

He was sitting in one of the cosier sitting-rooms, fiddling with his phone, when John came in. In his arms there were at least twenty case-files, which he dropped onto the small table in front of the sofa.

Kissing Sherlock lightly on his nose, he sat next to him on the sofa. It was a recent development, but a very welcomed one.

"Shall we start then? Lestrade said he'd need them back soon." John said and motioned towards the table.

Suddenly he felt Sherlock's soft lips on his.

"Amazing." The whispered word barely reached his ears, but he smiled nevertheless into the kiss, without deepening it. They were both perfectly content like this.

* * *

"Why did you follow me?" John said, when they were looking at a promising case-file, the ninth.

"When exactly?" Sherlock looked up to see John still looking at the picture in front of him.

"At the warehouse, after you shot Harry."

Sherlock took a moment to think about what he was going to say, then put the papers in his hands down and moved so he was directly in front of John.

"Because if you truly wanted to escape, you'd have run faster."

He put both hands on John's cheeks, stroking them slightly.

"You didn't completely believe it, so I knew I had a chance."

He moved forward and kissed John once again, tenderly, carefully, trying to show how much he loved this man.

"Brilliant." He whispered.


End file.
